I was the perfect wife. I spent seven years molding myself into the woman Antonio Geraldine wanted—quiet, elegant, and enduring. I even risked my life to save his during the succession wars, carrying the scars to prove it.But for Antonio, "Alpha" meant "Untouchable." The ice in his eyes never melted, not even when I gave him a son. My love was a pathetic fantasy until the night I walked in on him with her. The air reeked of betrayal, but the true knife to my heart came from our five-year-old son. I watched, shattered, as he ran to the woman in my husband’s bed and called her "Mommy."To them, I was a temporary, free babysitter.Then Antonio gave me the ultimate insult: "If you're so lonely, Lana, let’s have an open marriage. Go find a hobby. Find a man. Just don't expect me to care."He thought I was too broken to fight back. He was wrong.That night, I ordered a call boy. I wanted someone cold, dangerous, and expensive—a way to make Antonio taste the bile I’d been swallowing for years. I left the money on the nightstand at dawn and walked away, thinking the debt was settled.But weeks later, the morning sickness started. And when I finally saw the "call boy" again, he wasn't standing in a dark alley. He was sitting at my father’s gala, wearing a suit that cost more than my house, with the same lethal smirk from that night.He leaned in, his voice a low, terrifying growl: "A call boy, Greta? You have very expensive taste for a woman who leaves tips on the dresser."He isn't a professional. He’s Antonio’s greatest rival—and my new stepbrother.